


Like Dead Leaves in December

by learningthetrees



Category: Slow West (2015)
Genre: Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learningthetrees/pseuds/learningthetrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, there were always long dry spells without anything new — no new bounties and no new books. So Silas would return to the Hood poems. Something about the rhythm, particularly during a long day of riding, eased the dirt and dust and grime of life. The way someone could paint feelings with words — it brought a feeling Silas couldn’t explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Dead Leaves in December

He found the first one stuffed in the bottom of a dead man’s shoe. Payne had taught him early on to always search high and low for anything of value. He’d taught Silas where people often hid the things that mattered most to them — at the bottoms of trunks, under saddles, in shoes. The first one to find something worth anything kept it.

The bounty on this particular fellow was decent, but split six ways, it wouldn’t go very far. So Silas tore off the man’s boots, right and then left, only to see a crinkled, creased booklet shoved into the toe. He frowned. Usually, it was money or coins. Or hell, a knife.

Silas pulled it out. The cover was faded, the print nearly unreadable. He was able to make out the name Thomas Hood. He shrugged and tucked it into his jacket. Kindling.

“Find anything?” Payne had that gleam in his eye, and Silas could never quite tell if he was sincere or jesting.

Silas shook his head.

Payne shrugged. “Shame. At least the poor bastard’ll be worth something dead.”

Silas tried not to look at the man’s face as Payne and Skelly heaved him up onto the back of his own horse.

It wasn’t until much later, when the campfire was reduced to embers and the night air was abuzz with rattling cicadas and someone’s snoring, that Silas withdrew the tattered booklet from his pocket. He bent back the cover and, holding the book as close to the dying fire as he could, started to read.

 _I remember, I remember_  
_The house where I was born,_  
_The little window where the sun_  
_Came peeping in at morn_

Silas’s eyes grew strained as he turned page after page in the fading firelight, and when he fell asleep, it was with thoughts of an early-morning glint through the window of his family’s tiny house in Ireland.

He found the next one a few weeks later, after the book of Hood poetry had taken up permanent residence in his breast pocket. This one was in a saddlebag that Silas had snatched away from one of the others. He’d been hoping for a couple of dollars, but instead, he found a small, hardback book. Its pages were yellowing, the spine cracked and nearly snapped in half, but the pages were readable.

“Whatcha got?” A newcomer to the group, Abe, of the scraggly beard and ragged teeth, had come up behind Silas and was peering around his shoulder. Silas shoved the man away and stuffed the book into his pocket. “Got something you’re keepin’ a secret?” Abe called, but Silas was already striding away from him.

Later, as they rode toward the Colorado horizon, Silas glanced over his shoulder before pulling the book from its hiding place. With one hand on the reins, he flipped the book open — it landed on a short stanza:

 _He clasps the crag with crooked hands;_  
_Close to the sun in lonely lands,_  
_Ring'd with the azure world, he stands._  
_The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;_  
_He watches from his mountain walls,_  
_And like a thunderbolt he falls._

Silas could have sworn he felt the shadow of an eagle pass over his face, but when he looked up, the azure sky was empty of everything but a cloud.

It became a quest for him after that — to find whatever he could to read. Sometimes, it seemed every traveler they happened upon had a book of poems or a Bible stashed somewhere. Everyone else in the gang overlooked them, so all Silas had to do was snatch them up when no one was looking.

Of course, there were always long dry spells without anything new — no new bounties and no new books. So Silas would return to the Hood poems. Something about the rhythm, particularly during a long day of riding, eased the dirt and dust and grime of life. The way someone could paint feelings with words — it brought a feeling Silas couldn’t explain.

He became detached from the rest of the group — not that they were anything to get attached to, anyway. Terrorizing innocent people, taking whatever they wanted. Stupid stories and songs and guffaws all day and all night. More than once, Silas glanced around the campfire at the faces of his comrades, thrown into shadow, and wondered what he was doing there. Considered leaving for good. Thought about stealing all of their shit and not feeling a lick of pity. But in the morning, he mounted his horse same as always and continued on, cursing himself for his cowardice while stanzas of Hood ran through his head.

One night, Abe wouldn’t stop glaring at him from across the camp. Silas sent his most formidable glower back, but it did no good. Eventually, Abe stood and swaggered over to him, limbs loose from drink.

“You been stealin’ from me, haven’t you?” he said.

Silas scoffed. “Like you have anything worth taking.”

“Don’t get fresh with me.” Abe stabbed a wavering finger, a gesture that was meant to be threatening but only looked foolish. “You got that bag filled up with somethin’.” Abe pointed to the sack at Silas’s feet, the one he’d been stashing his finds in.

Silas sighed. “None of that’s yours.”

Abe lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, really? So if I was to go in there now, I wouldn’t find my silver-plated compass?”

“No.”

Abe stared at him for a moment, the campfire smoke blowing between them. Then the man lunged toward the bag. Silas jumped to his feet and grasped his lapel.

“Get off —” Abe struggled, but Silas didn’t relinquish him. Abe took a swing, but he was drunk and clumsy and his fist sailed past Silas. The group congregated around the campfire had grown quiet, all watching as Abe and Silas scuffled. Finally, Silas shoved him, and the man fell to the ground at the boots of a familiar figure.

Silas and Abe both slowly looked up to see Payne standing at the edge of the firelight. His was not a formidable stance; in fact, he had a slight grin on his face.

“Now,” he said, plucking at his whiskers, “what do we have here?”

“I know he’s a dirty thief,” said Abe, pointing once again at Silas. Payne turned to look at Silas, eyes bright with interest, before he looked back at Abe. Payne draped a hand on the man’s shoulder, a friend, a conspirator.

“Well, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be here, would he?” Payne said. “None of us would.”

Abe shook his head, fighting through his drunkenness to speak. “He’s stealin’ from _me_.” He poked himself in the chest. “He’s done it to _me_!”

Again, Payne looked at Silas. “That true?” He had the air of a parent humoring a child’s silly notion.

“No, Payne, it’s not true,” Silas said, growing weary of this trial.

Abe, sensing he was losing favor, made a move toward Silas’s sack again. “Look, he’s got it all right here —”

 _Click_. Payne’s loaded pistol was only a few inches from Abe’s head, his finger tickling the trigger. Abe froze, eyes darting back and forth between Silas and Payne.

“What? So, you’re on his side, then?” Abe asked. There was a quiver in his voice.

“Hmm.” Payne scratched his chin with his free hand. “Suppose I am.”

He pulled the trigger. Silas closed his eyes as the body fell to the dirt and balled up his fist against his thigh.

The rest of the gang dissipated, speaking in murmurs to each other as they cleared out from the center of camp. Payne holstered his pistol and took a few steps towards Silas, nudging the bag with his boot.

“You steal from him?” Payne asked, his voice hushed and his eyebrows raised, like he wouldn’t have cared either way.

“I told you no.”

Payne shrugged, then knelt and upended the bag before Silas could stop him. A handful of books — from anthologies to guides to prayer books — tumbled out. Payne chuckled, glancing up at Silas. “So, this is what you’ve been doing with your time?” he asked, shaking his head.

Payne picked one up at random, and Silas gritted his teeth. Payne glanced at the cover. “Thomas Hood?” he said. He flipped through a few pages and scoffed. “Poetry.” He gave a chuckle. Then he straightened up, still clutching the book. He held it up in front of Silas, his blue eyes grown serious. “Waste of time,” he said, then he turned and tossed the book into the flames before departing into the dark. Silas could only watch as the brittle pages alighted and crumpled, catching faster than kindling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The first stanza is from Thomas Hood's "I Remember, I Remember"  
> The second is from "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
> 
> Come talk to me at [ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com](http://www.ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com)!


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